


Softer Blues, or No Blues at All

by orionwrites



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8195894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionwrites/pseuds/orionwrites
Summary: Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes are d-partners, and more than that, they're best friends, closer to each other than to anyone else in the world. The draft changes this. Neither of them wanted it to.





	

There's a memory that runs on an endless loop in the back of Jack's mind, of when Gabe scored his first goal in minors and Jack was the first one to reach him after, lifting Gabe in his arms. Gabe pressed his forehead to Jack's, beaming brightly, ear-to-ear as Jack beamed back. They spun slowly together as their teammates skated up, patting Gabe's helmet and shouting their excited grunts. But for those eternal seconds, the gap of time where everything in the world was a silent blur to Jack except Gabe's dark brown eyes twinkling back at him, it was just the two of them. Jack wants someone to ask him about it so he can try to explain it even though he knows he doesn't have the words. 

But that was years ago, and he knows the chances of anyone asking him about Gabe ever again are slim to none. His stomach feels empty, but like he's sad, not like he's hungry. He's going to miss Gabe; that much is obvious. But it doesn't feel that simple, and he wishes his mind didn't get so hazy when he tried to think about it and sort out how he felt. 

 

Gabe's throat feels dry, but his stomach feels like it's been pulverized and liquefied, and he's certain that if he tries to drink anything, he'll throw up. He licks his lips and shuffles his feet, looking at his fingers as he tightens them into fists and loosens them again. He wishes Jack was—well, Jack _was there_. He wishes for something, and Jack's name repeats itself in his head. He remembers the last time they talked. 

"Promise me," Gabe said, "that whatever happens tomorrow, you and me will still be close." 

Jack raised his eyebrows, and Gabe looked at Jack's mouth. His lips were a pleasant pink that, in a passing thought, Gabe considered soft. Jack's lips were smiling, too, and they moved when Jack said, "Of course we will. You're my best friend." Jack kept smiling, but he licked his lips when he noticed Gabe looking at them. "Gabe," he called, nearly in a whisper. 

Gabe's eyes snapped up to meet Jack's, and there was something earnest in their soft blue. Gabe knew that Jack meant what he'd said; they were best friends, and Jack would try his damnedest to keep it that way. But there was still a piece in Gabe's chest that felt...gone. Like his heart had preemptively broken itself in anticipation for what was to come. Gabe's gaze faltered and fell, and he searched for any words that would help him describe what he was feeling, any words at all, but all that came were, "You're going first tomorrow."

Jack let the words hang in the air. As the season ended, either Jack or Gabe could have gone first. They were both strong defensemen with a different set of highly desirable skills; they were a pair that complemented and balanced one another, completed one another. But in the weeks to follow, and in the analyses of their play, Gabe was determined the weaker of the two. Jack Morrison could play well without Gabriel Reyes; Reyes' entire game depended on Morrison's presence on the ice. Jack knew Gabe read what the analysts were saying, that Gabe took it to heart, but the last thing he wanted was for Gabe to think poorly of himself. He looked at Gabe, brows knit in concern, and breathed, "You're still strong, Gabe. You could always go first." Jack swallowed hard, eyes searching Gabe's face, waiting for him to say anything. Jack knew the chances of Gabe going first overall were nonexistent, but that didn't mean Gabe wasn't strong. Parts of him did genuinely believe Gabe was a better player than he was, even if he knew Gabe wasn't going first. 

Finally, Gabe sighed, "I don't want to go first. I just don't want to lose you." 

 

Jack thinks about this now, waiting for the draft to start. He thinks about how his heartbeat changed when Gabe said that, and he wonders what that meant. Obviously he's emotional about losing his best friend, but the haze rolls in again and he gets lost trying to sort through his emotions. He takes a deep breath and wishes everything was as simple as it was on the ice. Hockey, Jack understands. 

He shakes his head, decidedly leaving the discussion from the night before in the past. He has a big day to look forward to, and he wants to spend it happy, and he wants Gabe to be happy, too. 

When the draft starts, Jack Morrison goes first overall. Gabriel Reyes goes second. The memory of Jack lifting Gabe in his arms plays in the back of Jack's mind before the realization hits him that they've been drafted to rival teams. 

"Promise me," he hears Gabe say, echoing between his ears. The echoes crescendo, crashing over him like the sound of the promise breaking, and through the loudest moment he swears he can hear Gabe shouting, "I just don't want to lose you." 

Jack is petrified, but he is determined never to let Gabe go. He hopes that the empty and worsening feeling in the pit of his stomach is really just hunger after all. 

 

For a month, Gabe thinks nothing of his new situation, other than that he is no longer playing with Jack. He keeps it objective, factual. It is neither a positive nor a negative that Jack is no longer his d-partner. It simply is. _It simply is_ that Jack Morrison, his former d-partner and best friend, is now playing for a rival team. _It simply is_ that there are roughly 20 new articles a day about Jack Morrison and how successful he'll be, and that Gabe reads each and every one knowing that a fraction of them will mention him in a negative light. _It simply is_ that the world of professional hockey considers Gabriel Reyes a part of Jack Morrison's past, a weight that only tied Morrison down, a selfish d-partner who only cared about fame for himself. 

These are not positives or negatives, Gabe decides. They just are. 

Jack is infuriated by the notion that Gabe, _his best friend Gabe_ , is a selfish player. Jack wants to say something, wants to clear Gabe's name, but he is told that that's a bad idea. There's a rivalry, after all. Jack wonders if the image of the team is more important to him than the image of his friend, and he wonders if being unsure makes him a bad person. 

In any case, there's a part of him that is incandescently happy to know that it's only a matter of time before he and Gabe are on the ice together again, even if it is on opposite sides. 

 

The first time they speak to each other after the draft is over the phone, two weeks before the preseason officially begins. 

"I'm pissed about what these articles are saying about you," Jack tells Gabe. "None of it is true."

"They say you're good," Gabe replies. The lift in his voice at the end makes it seem like he has more to say than that, and he absolutely does, but he can't bring himself to speak further. The silence hangs on the line between them.

Jack asks, his voice nearly a whisper though he isn't sure why, "You don't believe what they're saying, do you?"

Gabe shrugs, which is instinctive, before he says, "So what if it is? You're going to be great now."

Jack has a lot of responses, but the one that reaches his mouth first is, "You say that like I'm not great already," and he hates the way it sounds. Maybe he's the selfish one, he thinks. "We-we're both great," Jack says, trying to make it sound any better. 

Gabe shuffles his feet, the feeling in his chest as if something is missing returning. "I know you're great," Gabe says quietly. He reminds himself that things just are, and clenches his free hand into a fist and relaxes it over and over again. The call doesn't last much longer. 

Jack knows something is wrong but he doesn't know if he feels sad or angry, or if it's either of those. 

Gabe knows he's mad, and he knows he doesn't want to be. He decides that Jack could possibly be right and the things the articles are saying could possibly be false. Maybe it's just the rivalry that makes these writers so negative about Gabe. Maybe it's because he's from a nontraditional market. Maybe it's because he's not white. These all make sense. 

 

When preseason starts, Jack is ecstatic to share ice with Gabe. Jack is on home ice, and he remembers all the road games he and Gabe once shared, and how Gabe is sharing his road trips with a new team. A part of Jack is jealous that he doesn't get to make those memories with Gabe anymore, but he reminisces and smiles at the thought of Gabe's teammates learning about his road trip habits. Maybe after the game the two of them will have a little time to catch up, Jack hopes, even if it's just ten minutes. Maybe five. The memory plays on a loop; Jack lifts and spins Gabe endlessly behind Jack's eyes. 

Gabe thinks about road trips, too, and how he and Jack would sit with each other on the bus and watch movies. They sat close enough together to share a pair of headphones, and he remembers the way the hair on his arm stood when Jack's arm rubbed against his. He remembers the one time in the dark of night when the bus was quiet, the rest of the team was asleep except for Jack and him, when they were watching a movie and sharing a pair of headphones like always and Jack's arm brushed his and he reached out for Jack's hand....

Gabe closes his eyes and swallows hard, letting the memory of feeling Jack's fingers laced in his ghost away. Some things need to stay in the past, and Gabe knows that. Some things are never going to be the same. 

Gabe's stomach feels awful, knotted, and mangled when he steps onto the ice, onto _Jack's_ ice, for the first time. He knows Jack is going to try to talk to him, and the thought of it makes him want to throw up. Intellectually, he knew things were going to be different, but it isn't until that moment that it truly hits him. Jack isn't his teammate anymore, and though Jack would still proudly tell the world that Gabriel Reyes is his best friend, Gabe isn't sure that Jack is his... _anything_. 

Gabriel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he exhales, he squares his shoulders and willfully ignores the emptiness in his chest. His stomach is still twisted, but he clenches his jaw, thinking of all the things that make him angry. 

The draft took Jack away from him. The articles called him worthless. He's skating on rival ice, surrounded by rival fans shouting taunts and slurs at him. Gabriel wishes he had gone first, then, and he wishes that Jack was the worthless one. But there's the fucking golden boy, the first-overall angel descended straight from heaven skating towards Gabe with a massive grin plastered on his face. And for what reason, Gabe wonders, to taunt him too? Gabriel shakes his head. Jack is like the other guys on his team now, and they don't give a shit about Gabe. Why should Gabe give a shit about Jack anymore?

The knots in Gabe's stomach are replaced by fire, boiling his blood. Jack stops in front of Gabe and tries to talk, but Gabe skates away. Gabe knows what he has to prove to Jack, to the league, to the fans, and to himself. He knows in that moment that he's better than Jack Morrison. He's going to make everyone else know it, too. 

 

Gabe’s first preseason game against Jack is the very first time he drops gloves in a major league game. The media goes wild, headlines asking what could possibly have possessed Gabriel Reyes to want to fight Jack Morrison, articles concluding that Gabriel Reyes is jealous of Jack Morrison’s fame, and interviewers in locker rooms asking Jack Morrison questions about Gabriel Reyes, but never the other way around. Everyone is interested in hearing what the innocent golden boy who had been wrongly targeted had to say, and Gabe is left with the knowledge that Jack had cross-checked him, and he was just trying to stand up for himself. 

But Gabe remembers his objectivity. _It simply is_ that Jack is innocent and he is shaping up to be the league’s newest thug. 

This is not the last time Gabe tries to fight Jack, but Jack refuses each and every time; most times, a teammate steps in and Gabe beats them nearly into a pulp, which makes Jack thankful he hadn’t accepted the fight, but also upset that anyone had accepted in his place, and most upset that Gabe was dead set on fighting in the first place. Gabe doesn’t _just_ drop gloves on Jack, he drops gloves on anyone he can justify challenging. And he doesn’t win all of his fights, just a large portion of them. He likes carrying around his black eyes and his split lips, and he likes carrying around his new role. It’s different from who he was when he played with Jack, almost like everything he did with Jack never mattered. Jack had no hand in Gabe coming into his own as an enforcer, and Gabe reminds himself of this every time he fights. 

For every five articles that come out about how many points Jack scored in the first half of the season, one comes out about Gabe and his fights. And that’s a ratio Gabe can live with. 

Jack eventually stops answering questions about Gabe, and then about Gabriel, and lastly about Reyes. The formality puts distance between them. Jack hates the distance, and he remembers the promise he made Gabe. He remembers his best friend. But he knows the man who gets into fights every chance he gets, that man is not Gabe, and is not his best friend. 

He sticks with Reyes. And he will no longer be answering questions about him. In fact—and he never does say this aloud—he will be almost relieved if he never has to step onto the same ice as Reyes again.

And he never does say this aloud—he will be more than relieved, elated even, if he ever gets the chance to step onto the same ice as Gabe again. 

 

Gabe and Jack get the news on the same day: they've both been selected to play on Team USA at World Juniors. The more emotionally jarring news, however, is that they're most likely going to be playing as a pair again, something that hadn't crossed either of their minds up to that point. Jack sits alone in complete silence for an hour after getting the news. Gabe paces furiously around his apartment. Neither were remotely prepared to pick up like there had never been a falling out. Jack considers calling Gabe for one brief moment before he decides that getting a hat trick in every game from here on out for the remainder of his career would be easier than hearing Gabe's voice. Gabe never once considers speaking to Jack or anyone else. He just boils with anger and continues pacing. 

Of course, the media immediately latches onto this new development in the saga, and the early predictions are that Gabe will somehow get himself kicked off the team. Some writers even sound hopeful that Gabe might get injured and be unable to play. Gabe feels as sick to his stomach as ever, and Jack feels a familiar protective sense returning to him. 

When Jack finally contacts Gabe, he sends him a text. He thinks that, before this moment in his life, "we should talk" has never seemed so ominous. Gabe doesn't reply anyway. 

Gabe does cry when he gets Jack's text. He doesn't understand why; maybe it was just the final straw. He'd been angry since the announcement, but he'd been bottling it all up, and certainly a text from his biggest rival could push him over the edge. But the way he cried didn't _feel_ angry. His face wasn't warm and he wasn't clenching his fists and his jaw and he wasn't furiously trying to wipe away tears as the fell out of his eyes, set hard and sharp under brows knit together, a deep wrinkle between them. The tears Gabe cries after Jack texts him seem to just fall of their own accord, out of sync with the sobs that wrack his chest while his lungs struggle helplessly to catch a breath. He closes his eyes and sits at the edge of his bed, arms wrapped around his stomach, like he's literally trying to pull himself together. He's desperate, he's sad, and he knows it. 

He tells himself he's just angry. 

 

Days pass, weeks pass, and Jack decides "we should talk" is definitely among the top ten stupidest and/or worst things he's ever said. He knows he shouldn't have reached out to Gabe—to Reyes. He didn't give a shit about Jack anymore, and Jack knew this, but Jack wanted to believe otherwise. 

Jack knows better now, and he's going to act like it. 

Gabe calls Jack in the middle of the night. It's raining where Jack is; Gabe doesn't know this, of course, but Jack thinks it's apropos. When Jack answers the phone, neither of them say a word for a few moments, but Jack doesn't hang up because...well, he doesn't know why. He hasn't heard Gabe speak directly to him in ages. He wonders if Gabe's voice could somehow sound different directed at him rather than at a general audience. 

"Jack," Gabe says finally, nearly in a whisper. His voice sounds the same, and Jack's heart squeezes. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Gabe is whispering at him from the seat next to him on the bus. The only thing that ruins the fantasy is the phone on his ear making it sweat uncomfortably. 

Jack licks his lips, and because Gabe doesn't seem to be able to say much else, takes his turn. "We should talk." 

He hates himself, and adds this second instance to his top ten list. 

Gabe chokes on everything he really wants to say and only manages to spit out, "I know." The line goes quiet again, but Gabe can hear Jack breathing, and he can almost imagine the way Jack's chest rises and falls with each breath. 

Jack's stomach twists in the silence, and he knows he shouldn't say what's right at the top of his throat, but he's not sure what could make things worse between them. 

"I want to see you—" 

Both of them brace for the impact of what Jack's about to say; Gabe knows it's coming and he's afraid of how it will sound coming from Jack's mouth after so long. 

"—Gabe."

Jack's voice cracks. So does Gabe's heart. 

They make tentative plans and then hang up. That night, Jack is the one who cries, just as desperate and sad, only he doesn't call it anger. He calls it confusing. 

 

For the first time ever, both Gabe and Jack are unsure of their future with one another. Jack thinks it's strange, to consider his future _with_ Gabe, and he thinks it sounds awfully intimate. He shies away from the intimacy and jokes about it, failing to see the irony in the fact that they're sitting across from each other at a small table, sharing small talk over coffee in a cafe near Jack's apartment. 

Jack thanks Gabe for making the trip, and a small smile flickers across Gabe's face for a moment before it drops again. Gabe traces the rim of his cup of coffee with the tip of his finger while Jack watches and swallows nervously. 

"Team USA," is all Jack manages to say. He knows it's not a good attempt at a starter but at least it isn't "we should talk." 

Gabe nods, looking anywhere except at Jack. He can feel the tension in his chest like it's pressure pushing down on his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. "What about it?" he exhales forcefully, trying to get his lungs to feel normal again. 

"Well," Jack begins, shifting in his seat, "we're both playing on the same team...and we haven't really...gotten along recently."

This is the first time Gabe's eyes snap up to meet Jack's, and Jack nearly flinches at the way Gabriel clenches his jaw and stares at him. "What's supposed to make that better?" Gabe asks, like he's ripping off a bandage. 

Jack looks around, like the answer to his question is written somewhere on the walls of the cafe. "Just...talking? I guess." 

Gabe looks around too, but he's looking at the people. He knows the glimmer of recognition in some of their eyes, and his privacy feels violated just thinking about sharing anything personal with Jack while any of them had the potential to be watching. "I'm not sure public is the best place to do this," Gabe says finally, shaking his head. He watches Jack also give the cafe another once-over, and then make a slight scowl. 

Whatever tension there was before, Gabe feels it quadruple realizing his only other choice. He's near _Jack's_ apartment, not his own. When Jack asks him to come to his apartment to talk, he feels a small sense of validation for being right, but mostly an overwhelming sense of...well, it was fear if Gabe were being completely honest. But he couldn't say what exactly it was he was afraid of. Maybe of being vulnerable, maybe of somehow making things worse between them. He does his best to ignore the prickly feeling at the base of his spine as he and Jack step into Jack's apartment. Together. 

"Do you, uh, want something to drink?" Jack asks, gesturing to the kitchen. Gabe lifts his coffee cup and shakes it slightly, and Jack sighs, "Oh, right," under his breath. 

They sit together in Jack's living room, braving those few moments of silence that seem to preface all their conversations lately. 

Eventually, Gabe admits, "I feel like I lost everything."

Jack doesn't know what he means, but he feels something in his heart tug, and he just looks at Gabe. "I'm sorry," Jack breathes. 

Gabe explains, "Before the draft, we were everything, ya know? And now...." 

The silence returns between them again, Gabe searching for the words he wants to use, and Jack contemplating what he could have meant by "we were everything." 

"We're not even friends anymore," Gabe says gravely, and there's a profound emptiness in both his stomach and his chest that opens suddenly, threatening to swallow him whole. He coughs at the sudden emotion, trying to work through it, telling himself he won't cry on Jack Morrison's couch. "You promised we'd stay close and then we got drafted, and after that we only talked _once_ before preseason. You were painted as the next best fucking thing, and I was just an ugly part of your past that should just consider himself lucky to have ever known you. You don't think that fucking gets to me, Jack?" The emptiness in his stomach turns to a boiling sensation, anger quickly replacing that sense of loss. "I fucking lost you the moment you went first!" Gabe spits, pointing angrily at Jack. 

Jack watches in awe, hearing the words Gabe is saying and knowing what they mean individually, but not comprehending the full meaning. A memory plays on a loop in the back of Jack's mind where he lifted Gabe up and spun in circles with him, and the sudden rush of emotion from Gabe in that moment somehow makes the memory of their happiness stronger for Jack. Gabe feels angry tears coming on and he blinks furiously, rubbing his eyes. Jack furrows his brow and sorts through the twist of emotions that have pooled in his gut. 

He and Gabe made each other happy once, and now they don't. Gabe is angry about this, so angry he looks like he's about to cry. Jack is sad about this. He wants to be close to Gabe again, and he doesn't want Gabe to feel sad, but he's still fixating on "we were everything." 

"What did you mean by that?" Jack asks. "Like we were good at hockey together, and now we're not, or...?"

Gabe shakes his head. "Not everything is always about hockey. I care about you _as a person_ , Jack; you mean the world to me _as a person_. Or...you used to, at least. Now I don't know what to feel."

That's the first time Jack ever considers that everything he feels for Gabriel actually has nothing to do with hockey at all. In some ways this makes more sense, and in others it's more confusing. After all, hockey is the only thing Jack has complete and total mastery of. The knot in his stomach? The raging storm cloud of emotions in his mind? He had no idea how to even begin sorting through that shit. He licks his lips, eyes faltering and falling from Gabe’s face to the floor, and he doesn’t know what to say, or if he _should_ say anything at all. Should he just let Gabe keep talking? Or was Gabe definitely, definitely done and it was his turn to confess some feelings?

Gabe, sitting at the edge of Jack’s couch, lets his arms hang between his knees, cradling his to-go cup of coffee in both his hands, looking sadly down at the lid. He wants Jack to just...understand his feelings for him, but Jack apparently never thought of anything past hockey. Gabe doesn’t know why this comes as a surprise to him; it’s not like ever Jack had tons of friends outside the team, or even a girlfriend, or anything. And—he exhales deeply—maybe it’s that Jack never wanted any of those things, but maybe it’s that Jack didn’t know how to get any of them. Maybe he always only just had the one setting, and Gabe, being his d-partner, fit so well into his tunnel-vision because the two—Gabriel and hockey—went hand-in-hand. 

Gabe wishes Jack would say any of this. Gabe wishes Jack would say anything at all.

Jack doesn’t. 

Gabe wonders why the fuck he even bothered. 

His fingers tighten around his cup, denting the edges under his fingertips. His face feels warm, but his eyes don’t prickle in anticipation of tears. _This_ , he knows, is anger. He understands this. He stands suddenly, to Jack’s surprise, and says, “Well, I guess you know how I feel,” but he doesn’t say that he wishes Jack would just fucking say how _he_ felt, that Jack would feel _anything_ , for _goddamn once_. He walks to the front door, and it’s only until he places a hand on the doorknob that he realizes there’s a pull in his stomach, and he wants Jack to stop him. 

Jack watches Gabe hesitate, watches him stop before he opens the door and walks out of his apartment, and likely his life, forever. And Jack, finally, speaks.

“Gabe,” he says weakly; his voice shakes and his breath is uneven, and he doesn’t want to think about why _at all_. There’s an emptiness at the bottom of his chest, he can pinpoint it to the exact place underneath and slightly behind his heart. He wants to stand, but his knees feel unsteady, so he hopes instead that Gabe will turn around and sit down again. 

Gabe turns, slowly, head first, then shoulders. He can see Jack’s face, and Jack’s lips look as pink and as soft as ever, and this is the first time Gabe has noticed this since before the draft. Gabe and Jack look at each other a moment, Jack sitting for fear of standing and Gabe still mostly turned towards the door. 

“None of this makes sense to me,” Jack confesses. “Hockey has always been the most important thing to me in my life, and when I found a d-partner that I genuinely loved playing the game with, I was so, so happy. You were—you are my best friend, Gabe. You were always supposed to be that. I….” He runs the fingers of both his hands through his hair, and realizes only then that his eyes are wet, the first few tears forming fully at the corners and falling down his cheeks. He doesn’t care about them. He knows that if he doesn’t get this right, Gabriel will leave, and barring the complicated emotions, Jack knows he doesn’t want that. 

Gabe clenches his jaw and watches Jack as he bites his lips and cries. Gabe feels the pull in his stomach grow stronger, and he makes a fist with his free hand in response. He is _not_ going to cry in Jack Morrison’s apartment, and _especially_ not because Jack Morrison is crying. 

Jack wants to say more, but he’s only sputtering syllables, looking around the room and not at Gabe; he can’t look at Gabe until he pulls himself together, until he has something monumental to say. He thinks of the most monumental thing he possibly can say, and it doesn’t seem wrong. He closes his eyes for a long time, swallowing hard before he opens them again, and looks at Gabe. 

He blurts, “I love you, Gabe.”

It feels like a weight’s been lifted from his chest, and at the same time he can’t breathe, not until Gabe reacts. Gabe turns away from the door, brows knitting together while he crosses his arms. He doesn’t look angry, just confused, confused like Jack always is. Gabe simply replies, “That’s not true.” 

Jack raises his eyebrows and sits up straighter. “Why can’t it be true?” he asks, immediately defensive. “I’m closer to you than anyone else in the world. You and I used to hold hands on late bus rides when no one could see. I liked falling asleep on your shoulder because _you_ were there, and you smelled nice, and it was comfortable. I like being close to you, Gabe. It was always a constant in my life while we played together, and I know we’re not on the same team anymore, but I _miss_ that. I _miss_ you, and how close we used to be. I want to be that close to you again.” He shakes his head, realizing he’s said more than he thought he had in him, more than he wanted to, naming more instances and emotions than he realized he had names for. Like once he gives thought and that specific context to all his thoughts and emotions, they finally click, fall into place. He looks up into Gabe’s eyes again, his own eyes soft, and asks again, “Why can’t I love you?”

Gabe’s arms loosen, uncross, and his elbows, along with all his other joints, feel weak. He sways before stepping towards the couch, falling into the seat right next to Jack more than sitting. Jack watches him the whole time, more confident with his confession. Gabe finally lifts his gaze from the floor and looks at Jack—looks at his lips, and the way his mouth hung just slightly open in anticipation, just in case he had to say more. Gabe met Jack’s eyes. 

“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying I don’t think you do.” Gabe thinks about that a little more, and realizes that isn’t what he means to say at all. He tries again, “I believe you that you miss how close we were. I do, too. And I want to be able to be that close with you again, but I don’t know that it means that you—” he stopped abruptly, wrestling with the word, the notion—“love me right now.”

Jack nods, and his head feels clear for the first time in ages. He thinks that Gabe is right, maybe he doesn’t love Gabe right then, but he thinks wanting to be closer again counts for something. 

Gabe feels the tug in his gut relent, but only a little. His head feels clearer, too, and his chest feels both light and full, like he’s happy and finally, _finally_ not empty anymore. He puts his coffee cup down on the table in front of himself, and as he leans forward, looks back at Jack. There’s a complacent, small grin on his lips, and he’s looking down, but at nothing in particular. Gabe, for the first time in months, thinks, with confidence, that he and Jack are both happy. “Jack?” he says softly.

Jack’s head snaps up, and his brows raise as he looks at Gabe. 

And there are a million things Gabe wants to ask, and he wants to ask them all at once, in one stream, one breath. He decides he’ll start with closeness. For just that night, that will be enough. He takes a deep breath, asking, “Do you think I could stay here tonight?”


End file.
